


Of Shards and Days of the Week

by Edeny



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Implied Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-24 02:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2564414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edeny/pseuds/Edeny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set a month after the Reichenbach Fall.</p><p>John is fine, really. He's fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Shards and Days of the Week

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone. My first fic in a long, long time, and my first in this fandom. My first work on AO3, too. Hope I do okay. Not even completely sure what the hell this is. Not beta-ed, or brit-picked. Reviews are loved!

Through Mrs Hudson’s worrying, Mycroft’s unreadable looks, Molly’s hums of sympathy and Greg’s expressions of pity John knew that really, he was fine. Everyone was tip-toeing around him, acting as though the slightest mention of Sherlock would shatter him into fragile, sharp pieces. The very idea was ridiculous. John was strong, both emotionally and physically, and the caution and hesitation people were displaying around him was beginning to grate. Sometimes, a distant part of him grappled for his attention, showing him the signs of depression and screaming that he displayed almost every single one. He pushed that voice down, down, down the spiralling path of denial and numbness that had grown with Sherlock’s death. John didn’t like calling it a suicide, whenever he thought of the word uncomfortable shivers ran up and down his spine like little, cold fingers. He was moving on, he’d left 221B, he’d started working again. He was fine. John ignored the stress and anxiety that was slowly building in his chest, the terrifying nightmares of phone calls and wrists with no pulse, nightmares that he’d wake from shivering in sweat-soaked sheets. He ignored the odd flare of pain in his leg and that he was avoiding social situations almost desperately. He’d lost weight, too. It didn’t matter, he reasoned. He’d been through this before, he needed to grieve. He just needed to do something, to take his mind off Sherlock.

_“John.”_

_“What, Mycroft? What are you doing here?”_

_“You know Sherlock cared for you,”_

_“I know. Look, whatever you’re trying to do, you don’t need to.”_

_“You have been in quite a state ever since his demise. I strongly suggest seeing your therapist again, you certainly need it. Ella, isn’t it?”_

On Monday, John tried to go on a date. A young woman had offered to take him to a small restaurant for dinner, saying that he looked “Rather down in the dumps.” He’d shown up at the Italian restaurant with a fake smile and the hopes that she wouldn’t notice. She was nice enough, funny, witty, and quite attractive. John left early with an excuse and an apology on his lips, the burning need to be alone almost suffocating him. Gnawing at his lip he bitterly cursed Sherlock for ruining him for relationships.

_“John, dear, I know it’s difficult-”_

_“Mrs Hudson, please.”_

_“-But you need to try to help yourself. Locking yourself up and not talking to anyone certainly isn’t going to fix anything.”_

On a cold Tuesday morning, John destroyed his mirror. After a sleepless night, he was washing his face in the small bathroom in the flat he’d rented when he caught his own eye in the mirror. He blinked, not wanting to stare at the somehow unfamiliar gaze, and when he opened his eyes, the mirror was shattered and his fist and forearm were bleeding. _Seven years bad luck._ John stared, uncomprehending, at the long, sluggishly bleeding cuts before dropping to his knees to dig through the medicine cabinet under the sink for bandages. It didn’t hurt, surprisingly, he felt only a dull ache from the injuries. He left the bloodstained shards on the floor, the distorted reflections of himself almost unbearable to look at.

_“Mate, I know you’ve been a bit… You look like you need cheering up, and I’m free tonight. How does a pint sound? On me.”_

_“Thanks, Greg, but I can’t. I’m working late tonight. Go with someone else, enjoy yourself.”_

_“John, you’ve given me that excuse three times now. I miss him too, but you’ve got to stop shutting off like that. You need to start living again.”_

On Wednesday, he visited Sherlock’s grave. It always filled him with a heavy sense of unease, a cold ache settling in the space between his ribcage and heart. He stood for what felt like hours at the tombstone, hands in his pockets. He shivered in the cold air, wishing keenly for a scarf. He could never think of anything to say to the silent stone, whenever he would open his mouth he could just imagine Sherlock prattling on about how talking to the dead was a ridiculous display of sentiment and that John was being horribly dull. After fifteen minutes of silence he left with clenched fists and bitten lips, keeping his eyes to the ground.

_“He wouldn’t want you to fall apart like this.”_

_“Molly, now isn’t a great time.”_

_“I know you loved him, I know how it feels. I just want to help, we all just want to help.”_

On Thursday, John accidently texted Sherlock’s old number. _I found one of your coats in my bedroom._ He hadn’t realised until after he’d pressed send and in a fit of desperate rage he’d hurled his phone into the wall. It hit the plaster with a dull thud, the screen breaking down the middle. Sliding to the floor he’d sat for hours, knees pulled up to his chest and head in his hands.

_“I’m fine, okay? I’m completely fine! I just need to deal with it, my own way.”_

On Friday, John broke. A co-worker had forced him to take a sickday and he was at the new flat, sitting in the single, lonely chair and holding cooling tea carefully with two hands. Finally, whatever hold he’d been clutching broke and the dull edges of the _angerfearguiltagonysadness_ sharpened into razors and cut through him like he was paper. Choking on air, he dropped the tea and tore his hands through his hair, nails rasping harshly against his scalp. Groaning, he drew his knees up to his chest and bit at his tongue, trembling. He wasn’t going to cr- Fuck. Tears welled up in his tightly clenched eyes and spilt down his cheeks, completely unwelcome and unbidden. “Are you happy now, you bastard?” He hissed to the air. “Are you bloody happy?” He swallowed and coughed, curling into a tight ball on the one, lonely chair. Small, broken sobs echoed through the flat, warped and mangled through John’s clenched teeth.

_“I’m fine.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Tumblr: Edenie Come party with me :)


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